


It's Been a While

by bubblysours



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Complete, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblysours/pseuds/bubblysours
Summary: Ryan gets invited to Brendon's wedding.





	It's Been a While

It was a Friday, I remember, the day I got Brendon’s wedding invitation. The envelope was kind of crumpled, and a sticker had been carefully placed on its surface, labeled with my name, George Ryan Ross III, and the name of some wedding planning agency.  
At first I was thinking, Probably some distant cousin or something, or like a niece or a nephew I don’t really know. When I opened the envelope, a single sheet of paper fluttered out and came to rest on the hardwood floor. It was good quality paper, I could tell by the feel of it—it wasn’t thin and flimsy like the binder paper I used to write lyrics on when Spencer and I first started out, but stiff, and thick.  
Curious, I picked it up—usually, when I got wedding invitations from my family, the paper was printer paper, and the designs were mediocre—they would consist of a stock photo with an image of a bouquet and a wedding cake with the words You’re Invited printed beneath it in Comic Sans font, along with an address and a phone number and all that other bullshit.  
This one, however, was kept brief—the writing was some sort of spirally cursive, and it was short and straight to the point: You are invited to the wedding of Brendon Urie and Sarah Orzechowski, which will take place on April 27, 2013 at Saddlerock Ranch in Malibu, California. Hope to see you there!  
The invitation felt so manufactured, so artificial and fake that I almost thought that it was a prank, but something told me it wasn’t. Something told me that I had actually been invited to Brendon’s wedding.  
And I wasn’t going to be the one he married.  
Well, obviously, I wasn’t expecting him to marry me, but I thought that whatever we had had back when I was still in the band at least meant something to him. I never expected him to go off and marry someone else literally four years after I—  
Holy shit. It’s been four years.  
I felt a little dizzy after realizing that, after realizing that Brendon’s fingers haven’t run through my hair or touched my cheek or held my hands in four years. We’ve hardly talked since the day I left, the one exception being running into each other at some random restaurant a couple of months after we broke up.  
Was there even anything there in the first place? We never even officially had a relationship. It was always just a quick kiss on the lips before a show, or a slow dance in the dressing room to get rid of all that nervous energy. I remembered those dances vividly—my hands looped around Brendon’s neck and his hands wrapped around my waist, the whole thing being far more intimate than we made it out to be.  
I took a shaky breath, considering tearing the invitation into tiny little pieces and feeding them to my dog, but then thought better of it.  
I wasn’t going to go, obviously, but just in case I changed my mind, I would keep it in a safe place. Folding it neatly, I tucked it into the little box in which I kept all the mementos from the old days—a keychain, which Brendon had bought for me sometime during our stay in Denver, some old polaroids of us from our first world tour, and a couple of scarves—well, the ones that would fit in there, anyway. A wave of nostalgia coursed through me, and I quickly shut the lid of the box, gripping the edge of my dining table for support.  
“Don’t dwell on the past,” I muttered to myself, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath, and trying to get the scent of Brendon (peach and a hint of lime) out of my nose.  
I went back to the pile of mail after that—some of it was sent by fans, but the rest were forgotten bills and discarded advertisements.  
It had been Friday, I remember, the day I got Brendon’s wedding invitation. It was also, coincidentally, the day after Valentine’s Day.  
~ ~ ~  
“Hey, Brendon,” I said, tapping his shoulder. He turned around, his red-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose and a bright grin on his face.  
“Yeah?” he asked, pushing his glasses up.  
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”  
“So?”  
“So, I got you something.” Brendon’s eyes lit up, and he laughed, his glasses sliding down his nose again. This time, I pushed them up for him, patting his head lightly.  
“What?” he demanded eagerly, catching my hands and checking to see if there was anything in them. “Where is it? Was it expensive?”  
“Wait. All in good time.” I grinned, shaking my head. “First, tell me. Did you get me anything?”  
“Ummm,” Brendon suddenly looked nervous, and my face fell. He looked at his shoes, and I sighed.  
“I’m taking that as a no, then,” I muttered. “Shame on you, Bren.”  
“Oh, come on, Ry,” Brendon suddenly piped up, rolling his eyes playfully. “Of course I got you something! Seriously, what kind of guy do you think I am?”  
“Hand it over, then,” I said skeptically, crossing my arms.  
“Okay.” Brendon smirked, bringing his hands up to my cheeks and holding my face.  
“W-wha—” He glared at me.  
“Shh,” he whispered. “You’re ruining the moment.”  
Then he stood on his tip-toes kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, no tongue involved or anything, but when Brendon’s hands left my face and his lips pulled away from mine my heart was racing and my cheeks had turned what Brendon described as “a-fever-you-can’t-sweat-out-red”.  
“Um,” I said, swallowing as Brendon’s finger traced the lips he had kissed just moments before. “That was nice, I guess.” Brendon chuckled, tweaking my nose lightly.  
“Hey!”  
“Give me my gift now,” he instructed, raising one eyebrow. “I gave you yours.”  
“What?” I exclaimed, my voice thick with disbelief. “That can’t be a gift. You literally thought of it on the spot.”  
“It’s still a gift,” Brendon insisted. “It’s special, because it’s our first. Plus, I know you liked it, Ross.”  
“Whatever,” I sighed, reaching into my backpack and pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper.  
“What is that?” he asked, but I silenced him with a glare.  
“It took me forever, Bren,” I informed him, placing the paper in his hands. He took it reluctantly, smoothing it out and reading its contents.  
“When the moon fell in love with the sun,” Brendon read aloud, his forehead crinkling with concentration. “All was golden in the sky.”  
“All was golden when the day met the night,” I sang, closing my eyes and imagining a guitar in my hands.  
“When the sun found the moon,” Brendon continued, his grin broadening.  
“He looked like he was barely hanging on,” I belted, strumming my invisible guitar.  
“But her eyes saved his life, in the middle of summer,” Brendon said, looking up at me with questioning eyes. “Who is this about, Ry?”  
“Summer,” I repeated, ignoring his question. “When the moon found the sun, she was drinking tea in a garden…” Brendon shook his head, a confused smile on his face.  
“Under the green umbrella trees, in the middle of summer.”  
“In the middle of summer, all was golden in the sky, all was golden when the day met the night,” I chorused, my voice louder now. Brendon laughed.  
“You should lengthen the chorus a little bit, Ry,” he suggested, poring over the lyrics. “It’s too short.”  
“Read the next verse, Brendon,” I told him, closing my eyes again and imagining the sounds of the strings that would play when—if—we would put this song on the next album. I hummed their part, becoming immersed in the music inside my head.  
“Seriously, Ryan, who is this about?” Brendon demanded, his fingers tightening around the page.  
“So he said, ‘Would it be alright, if we just sat and talked for a little while, if in exchange for your time, I give you this smile?’”  
“Ryan!”  
“So she said, ‘That’s okay, as long as you can make a promise, not to break my little heart or leave me all alone in the middle of summer.’”  
“Ryan, I swear to God…” I drowned out Brendon’s protests with the next verse, looking him right in the eye the entire time.  
“Well he was just hanging around, then he fell in love, and he didn’t know how, but he couldn’t get out, just hanging around, then he fell in love…”  
Brendon silenced me with another kiss, this one more heated than the first. I pushed him away, smiling sadly.  
“Tell me, Ry,” he said, breathless.  
“It’s about us, dumbass.”

I woke up after that, sweating profusely and feeling incredibly thirsty. This had been a recurring dream of mine, this precious memory from the old days—Valentine’s Day of 2007 was both the day of my first kiss with Brendon and the day I showed Brendon the first draft of When the Day Met the Night.  
Since then, we had changed much of the song, of course—the sun and moon were switched, as were the first couple of lines and some lines in the middle of the song. We had never really decided who was the sun and who was the moon in that song—all we knew was that they represented our relationship, and that one of them broke their promise to the other.  
I just didn’t know if it was me or Brendon.

~ ~ ~

The car ride to Malibu was harrowing, to say the least—I have no clue what came over me and told me to accept the invitation to Brendon’s wedding and decide to drive over to Malibu, but the entire drive, I shifted around in my seat, plagued with thoughts of what I would say to Brendon when I saw him. I was so dazed I completely missed a green light when I was at the front of a line of cars, zoning out so thoroughly that I didn’t even hear the cacophony of honking that assaulted my ears until the light became red again.  
I doubted that I would even see him. At the rate my mind was going, I’d probably second-guess myself to the point where I would just ditch the wedding and go out clubbing in Malibu or something. Probably the or something. I’m not really the clubbing type.  
It was a Friday, like the day I got the invitation, and the wedding was on Saturday—I had packed a suit, tie, and dress pants, along with some nice shoes and a bottle of cologne, too, because it was late April in Southern California, and deodorant reeks of cheap.  
There must have been a bachelor party sometime earlier this week, but I didn’t attend—I had been too busy spending time in the studio fine-tuning my music and moping around my house, waiting for the wedding to come around so I could just get the whole thing over with. Why am I even going? I really don’t know. I want to see Brendon again, I guess. Patch things up, because back in 2009, when I left the band, things seemed unfinished. I guess I was coming to finish them, because the one time we ran into that diner was literally just an exchange of “Oh hey”s and “What’s up with you nowadays?”s and did practically nothing to inform Brendon exactly why I left and inform me exactly why he took it so well.  
I reached the hotel a couple of hours after I left my house—it was the cheapest option I could find, for Malibu, a shabby inn on the side of the road with a filthy pool and some umbrella tables at the back, as well as complimentary breakfast in the morning. That was something I liked in a hotel. It was nice not to have to go out and spend all your money on that overpriced organic shit and instead go downstairs and enjoy a free plate of greasy cinnamon buns, pancakes from a mix, and frozen sausages.  
Pulling into the barren parking lot, I sighed, running my hands through my hair and starting to take the key out of the ignition when I heard the oh-so-familiar stringed introduction to an oh-so-familiar song, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on the title.  
Then, I heard Brendon’s voice begin, and I panicked a little bit, realizing why this song was so familiar. Because I wrote it. How could I have not recognized it immediately? Fucking I Write Sins Not Tragedies was playing on the radio, and I didn’t recognize it.  
I didn’t wait for the song to finish, taking the key out of the ignition before Brendon had the chance to say “whore” and shut my eyes tightly, taking deep breaths.  
I was doing this. I was really doing this. Brendon’s wedding was tomorrow, and I was going to go.

~ ~ ~

I overslept. I fucking overslept. What was wrong with me? The wedding was starting sometime around noon, and I had woken up at ten in the morning. Goddamn hotel and the conveniently placed bar in the lobby. Goddamn cheap spirits (I’m a sucker for a good deal). Goddamn hangovers.  
I stumbled through my hotel room, trying to find my suitcase and tripping over something medium-sized and box-shaped. Found it. I unzipped it quickly, my hands shaking and my vision still slightly blurry because of my spontaneous binge on alcohol last night. Why did I have to do that?  
Well. Nothing there to be done about it now, except take a couple of aspirin pills and get ready as quickly as possible.  
Shit. Why didn’t I set an alarm? I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and my dress pants before I realized that I hadn’t taken a shower and I kinda stank of vomit. Cursing under my breath, I yanked the pants and boxers off and practically sprinted into the bathroom, grabbing one of the tiny little hotel shampoo bottles and a bar of soap.  
The water was cold, too cold, but I couldn’t do anything about it. The shower was uncomfortable, to say the least, but I was clean at the end of it, and that was all that really mattered. It took me about twenty more minutes to figure out how to button up the suit properly, as I was still kind of intoxicated and another twenty minutes to figure out how to tie the tie, because I hadn’t done that crap in a while. I came downstairs just as the breakfast area was closing and swiped a couple of cinnamon rolls, ignoring the dirty looks the kitchen staff gave me.  
I was in the car by around 11:00, which was not good timing, especially considering I had no clue where the hell this Saddlerock Ranch place was and my GPS fucking sucked. The thing led me to a gentleman’s club at first, and I was utterly repulsed, trying to figure out how on earth Saddlerock Ranch could be the name of a goddamn strip joint. It reminded me of the place where we filmed the “But It’s Better if You Do” video, but we didn’t even film that in a real strip club. At least, I don’t think. It’s been a while.  
An hour later, I finally came to the place—it was somewhere in the middle of a bunch of trees and dusty paths and gravel roads, the sun high in the sky and glaring down on us like it was some sort of God. Ha. I think, imagining a conversation with it. We were higher than you when we wrote Pretty. Odd.  
Fuck you, it replies, and I begin to wonder if I’m still high. Probably not. I don’t think I’ve gotten high again since 2009. I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with a blazing ball of gas and fire since 2009, either. It’s been a while.  
Rubbing my eyes, I got out of the car, eyeing the throng of chattering people and white decorations just a couple hundred feet away from where I was standing. For a moment, I think I see Brendon, but then the person turns around. A stranger.  
I began to walk tentatively over to the crowd, staring at my nice shoes and suddenly regretting showing up. It’s not too late to turn back, a voice inside my head informs me. All you have to do is turn around and reach for your car door and leave.  
It was pretty tempting, I’ll admit, the prospect of just leaving. And I was about to do exactly that when I heard my name being called out. I froze. Who the hell even knows me in this place, other than Brendon and Spencer? I looked up slowly, a sheepish smile spreading over my face when I saw Pete Wentz’s familiar face, a glass of champagne in one hand and Patrick Stump’s fedora in the other.  
“What the hell, Pete, give it,” Patrick protested, one of his hands also curved around a champagne glass and the other one darting back and forth, reaching for his hat. Pete snorted, squishing the hat onto Patrick’s head.  
“Ross,” Pete said, eyeing me suspiciously. Patrick followed his gaze and saw me, his face turning a little pale. “What are you doing here?”  
“I was invited,” I told him, fishing through my pockets for the invitation. My fingers closed around a neatly folded piece of cardstock, and I handed it to Pete, suddenly feeling nervous. It’s been awhile since I talked to Pete. Pete took the invitation, frowning.  
“Right,” he said, handing back the invitation. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” Patrick crossed his arms mimicking Pete’s suspicious expression.  
“I was invited,” I repeated, suddenly defensive. What the fuck is going on? Pete was always nice to me, even after the split. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in person since I left the band, but the emails and texts we had sent each other were always friendly. “Don’t I have a right to go to my ex-bo—band member’s wedding if I was invited?” Pete sighed, scratching his head, seemingly at a loss for words.  
“Look,” Patrick offered, looking a little embarrassed, “we know that there used to be something between you guys. We know you guys used to have a-a thing, if you get what I’m saying. We just want to make sure you’re not here to steal the groom from the—” What the hell? Did they really think I’d stoop that low?  
“Excuse me? No,” I interrupted angrily, my face getting warm. “If you think I’m here to try and get laid by Brendon, then you’re wrong. We-I’m not into that anymore. Well, I wasn’t into that, ever.” I cleared my throat, feeling slightly mortified as Patrick’s and Pete’s mouths dropped open, their cheeks turning an obnoxious shade of pink.  
“We-we weren’t—” Patrick stuttered, his voice shaking. Wow.  
“We never implied anything of the sort, Ryan,” Pete snapped, closing his mouth. “I just don’t want you to act like a jealous ex around Brendon and Sarah. They’re happy together, you know, we don’t want any drama ruining that.”  
“Any drama ruining what? What drama?” a familiar voice asks, and I flinch for a second—this voice is too familiar, like ex-band-mate familiar, almost Brendon familiar—but I relax when I see that it’s just Spencer.  
Wait.  
“Ryan?” Spencer exclaimed, staring at me in disbelief. “Man, I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Is it really you?” I began to shake a little, the nostalgia becoming too much. If Spencer reminds me this much of the old days, what the fuck am I going to do when I see Brendon? I might pass out, and if I’m lucky, Brendon will just think that it’s some flat-chested fangirl who somehow found the location of his wedding and fell down unconscious because she had a seizure from extreme fangirling.  
It’s probably happened before; I’m sure he wouldn’t be too surprised.  
“Uh, hi Spencer,” I managed, cringing at my own awkwardness. He’s your goddamn childhood friend, and all you say after not seeing him for, what, three? four? years, is ‘Uh, hi Spencer”? You’re a piece of shit, Ryan Ross, did you know that?  
“Hi to you too, Ryan,” Spencer said, still a little bewildered. “I mean, I knew Brendon invited you, he invited Jon too, but he didn’t show up. I wasn’t expecting you to show up, either.” Same, I wanted to tell him, but that’d be weird, so I responded with a simple shrug.  
“After all the shit that went down in Cape Town, I mean—sorry, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. It’s not my place.” I nodded slowly, a pit forming deep in my stomach.  
“Um, am I really late? Or am I, like, around on time?” I asked, switching the subject. Anything but Cape Town. Please. Anything but Cape Town.  
“You’re alright,” Spencer said, checking his watch. “Around fifty minutes late, but nothing’s really started yet. The ceremony is supposed to begin in like ten minutes, though, so we’d better get to our seats.” He starts walking over to an area littered by white plastic chairs, a flower-covered arch in front of the whole setup. It’s cute, I’ll admit, but not what I would’ve imagined Brendon’s wedding would be like. The Brendon I used to know would probably have had his wedding in a bar, if he could, or maybe even a nightclub. Not that the Brendon I used to know would ever have plans of settling down. He used to tell me that he liked being on tour, that he liked having nothing tying him down, and that the one person he would even consider giving up everything for was on tour with him.  
“How convenient for you,” I would tell him, and the whole thing would usually end in a passionate kiss or a make-out session or something. Declarations of love were a pretty big turn-on.  
Now look at him, marrying someone he met at a concert once. I remembered Sarah, I think. Brendon met her while we were touring for Pretty. Odd. That night was the last time he kissed me. After that it was all about that one girl he met at that concert. He had been pretty smitten, I realized. Whatever Brendon and Sarah have, it’s real. Unlike whatever Brendon and I had, it seemed.  
“You alright, Ry?” Spencer asked, tugging me out of my thoughts. Ry. He used to call me that when we were younger. Brendon called me that, too, but I became Ryan again after he met Sarah. I used to hate the nickname, but now I crave the sound. It wasn’t the same when Spencer said it though. Best friends would never be the same as boyfriends.  
I needed to stop thinking about that. It was unhealthy. Instead, I focused on Spencer. He seemed so quick to reconcile with me, so quick to fall back into the rhythm of nicknames again. I wonder if Brendon would be the same.  
Stop. Thinking. About. Brendon.  
“Yeah, I’m good, Spence,” I replied, looking dazedly at the clouds and drawing circles in the grass-covered ground with the tip of my shoe. Hell, if he decides to call me Ry, I’ve got every right to call him Spence.  
“So what do you think of Fall Out Boy’s new album?” Spencer asked, breaking an awkward silence. It would probably be one of many.  
“Huh? They released a new one?”  
“A couple of weeks ago, actually,” Spencer grinned, “the fans went batshit crazy.”  
“I bet,” I replied, smiling a little. Come to think of it, I had heard a new song on the alternative radio station I always listened to, and I was pretty sure that Patrick’s voice was in it. Patrick’s voice was hard to miss.  
We ended up at the front of the mass of chairs, and I gulped audibly, wanting, needing, Spencer to offer to give me a seat at the back. He didn’t take the hint, pointing to a chair and gesturing for me to sit in it. I started sweating a little. I’m going to be so close to Brendon. So close.  
“Could I, maybe, you know, sit at the back?” I asked, no, more like pleaded, begged. Spencer frowned. The throng of people had already started to file in through the neat rows of chairs and the back row had been filled, along with most of the other rows. There were a couple of seats open in the third row, but when I went to take one of them, a rather plump-looking woman glared at me at put her purse on the chair. Bitch. The other one was filled up quickly by some other random guy I didn’t know. I walked back to the seat Spencer had saved for me in the front row, staring at my feet and praying that Brendon didn’t notice me.  
I heard footsteps soon after that, and I looked up quickly, sucking in a breath.  
There he was. Spencer and this other guy, Dallon, I think his name was, walked with him, flowers in their breast pockets. Brendon looked stunning. He had new hair, this I had already known—I had done my fair share of stalking on the internet. Well, it wasn’t stalking if the pictures were just one google search away, right?  
He looked...different, in both a bad way and a good way. The different made him more beautiful, but it made him seem more intimidating, too. Both scared me. I glanced down at my shoes again, the tips stained with green and brown. Dammit. These will take a while to clean.  
I looked up again, seeing a couple of girls stroll past the arch, dressed in creamy white dresses that must have cost a fucking fortune. Well, Brendon’s rich as shit now, so I guess he can blow his money on anything. Sarah’s dress looks expensive, too—there are whispers going around that it’s Vera Wang, and I’m just thinking, Shit, the money I could’ve made if I stayed with Panic!, and that’s when I feel someone staring at me.  
My eyes went from Sarah, who was walking along the aisle with some old guy who I assumed was her father, back to the altar, where Brendon was, and my stomach lurched uncomfortably.  
He’s noticed me. We made eye contact for several seconds, a confused frown on Brendon’s face. He shook his head, as if he thought I was a hallucination or something, and then started beaming at Sarah, his frown replaced by a brilliant smile.  
I followed his gaze, staring at Sarah. She was really pretty—Brendon chose well, really well. He wasn’t lying when he told me she was gorgeous. She made it to the altar, standing next to Brendon with a huge grin on her face. She looked like a giddy fangirl, I thought, but doesn’t everyone look like a giddy fangirl at their wedding?  
The next couple of minutes went by in a blur. The two of them exchanged their vows, which were really very poetic, by the way, almost like song lyrics, and then the pastor said the whole “Do you, Brendon Boyd Urie, take Sarah Orzechowski as blah blah blah” and then he replied, “I do,” which I’ll admit, kind of broke my heart, but he was the one who proposed, right, so why the hell wouldn’t he say “I do”? Then the pastor said, “Do you, Sarah Orzechowski, take Brendon Boyd Urie as blah blah blah” and obviously, she said, “I do”, because it’s fucking Brendon, who could say no to that?  
And then they did the rings and shit, and there were rose petals, and when the pastor was like “Are there any objections to the wedding of this couple” or something along those lines I think Pete and Patrick, who were also sitting in the front row, may have given me murderous glares. Chill. I’m not a goddamn homewrecker.  
And then like half a second after the pastor said, “You may kiss the bride”, they started kissing, and I’ll have to admit, it was kind of sweet, because they were smiling against each other’s lips. Everyone started cheering after that, everyone except for me, because I felt like something had broken inside, something that would take a while to repair.

~ ~ ~

I was probably on my fourth glass of champagne when Spencer and the other guy, Dallon, came up to me, their little breast-pocket-bouquets already wilting in the harsh sunlight. Spencer clapped me on the back, hard, and I started choking on my drink, coughing loudly and obnoxiously. Wiping my mouth, I glared at him, a little bit tipsy. And irritated. Pretty irritated.  
“Hey, Ry,” Spencer said, a glass of—was that water?—in his hands. I nodded at him, admiring his attempts to sober up. He had started spiraling into addiction when I left—I was happy that he was slowly climbing out of that hole. I’d seen people close to me who’d gone down that path and it wasn’t pretty.  
Dallon looked at me strangely, gears turning in his head as he tried to identify me.  
“Ry—wait. You’re Ryan Ross. The Ryan Ross. The milk fic Ryan Ross?” Dallon mused, a smirk on his face. I had the sudden urge to knee him in the balls.  
“Um…” I started, blushing at his mention of the milk fic. It was embarrassing that anybody would want to write that. It’s embarrassing that so many people read it. It’s embarrassing that I read it, and actually kind of liked it.  
“Shut up, Dallon,” Spencer commanded, barely hiding a grin. “That’s disgusting.” Dallon laughed out loud, shaking his head.  
“I’m kidding, dude. Nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Dallon, in case you didn’t already know,” he said, and I nodded again, not wanting to speak, because I was sure I’d slur out something I’d regret saying. God, why’d I have to get drunk, again?  
“So, we’re here to tell you that Brendon wants to talk to you,” Spencer said, sipping his water. Dallon nodded, snatching a champagne flute from one of the waiters and mimicking Spencer.  
“Really?” I asked, sounding eager. Too eager. Dallon raised an eyebrow.  
“Why not? You were part of the band, once,” he replied, crossing his arms. Somebody’s getting snarky, all of a sudden. Confused, I nodded. Did something ever happen between Brendon and Dallon? Couldn’t be, he met Dallon after he met Sarah. And he was fucking smitten with Sarah.  
“Yeah, I mean, where is he?” I managed, somehow keeping myself from slurring out my words. This is not a good idea. I really shouldn’t go to him in this state.  
“Follow me,” Spencer said, putting his now-empty glass onto one of the waiters’ trays. I did the same, trailing reluctantly behind him, my head spinning a little from all the alcohol. We came upon a little clearing, shaded by a bunch of trees and accompanied by a wide cobblestone road. An old-fashioned car was parked on the path, its white surface polished and gleaming. Brendon and Sarah posed for pictures in front of the car, and I flinched a little when he captured her lips in an affectionate kiss. The camera went crazy, all flashing lights and snap, snap. Sarah pulled away, adjusting her hair a little bit, a silly grin on her face.  
“We done?” Brendon inquired, hugging Sarah to his chest. Sarah sighed contentedly, relaxing against him. I looked away, examining the rough bark of one of the trees instead. This is hard. This is really hard.  
The cameraman nodded, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Yeah. Thanks, guys, you did great.” Holding Sarah’s hand, Brendon walked away from the car, and Spencer nudged me.  
“Now’s your chance,” he whispered. What?  
“Um, could you, maybe, like, get his attention or something?” I begged Spencer, but he had already walked away, muttering to himself about trying out the buffet—apparently, the wedding had first class catering. I wasn’t surprised. I sighed, straightening my tie and doing my best to wipe the dirt and grass off of my shoes. Here goes nothing.  
Walking over to the happy couple, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and took deep breaths to get rid of the pit in my stomach. Thanks, Spencer. You could have at least come with me, asshole, I really, really, don’t want to do this alone. Sarah noticed me first, her brows furrowing as I approached. She stared at me, biting her lip and cocking her head to the side.  
“I know you,” she said. I was close enough to hear her voice, loud and clear. “You’re—”  
“What is it, babe?” Brendon interrupted, looking up. We made eye contact and his mouth dropped open a little, and he squeaked out a quiet, “oh.”  
“Uh, hi, Sarah. Brendon.” God, this is awkward.  
“I should probably leave now,” Sarah offered, letting go of Brendon’s arm and smiling apologetically at the both of us. “You guys talk. I know you haven’t seen each other in a while.” She walked away, holding her dress so that she didn’t trip over it.  
“Wait, Sa—” Brendon started, but then he shook his head, looking at the ground.  
“So,” I began, my voice shaking a little.  
“So,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.  
“Um, congratulations,” I stuttered. “I mean, on your wedding. Sarah’s..uh...nice. Yeah.”  
“Thanks.” He ran a hand through his new hair, fluffing it up. I stared at the sky.  
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? Nice day for a wedding.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Um, so, how’s life?”  
“Fine.”  
“Working on any new albums, lately?”  
“Yep.” What’s with all the one word answers? Cat got your tongue, Brendon?  
“Same,” I stated, and smiled inwardly when I saw Brendon’s eyebrows jump up.  
“Really,” he said, his tone incredulous. I crossed my arms, a little offended.  
“Just because I left the band didn’t mean I was going to stop making music. In fact, Jon and I started our own band, do you know what it was called?” Brendon smiled a little, some of the tension in his shoulders dissapating.  
“Yeah, The Old Arteries, right?” I snorted, and Brendon laughed aloud. We composed ourselves in a matter of seconds, however, and Brendon’s face became stoic again.  
“It was nice catching up with you, Ryan,” Brendon said stiffly, starting to walk away. “But I kinda have to go now.” I froze, realizing I hadn’t told him what I had intended to tell him yet.  
“Wait,” I told him, grabbing his arm gently. Brendon stiffened, yanking his arm out of my grip immediately and putting his other hand over it protectively.  
“What?” he asked, growing impatient. “Look, Ross, I’ve got a wife to get back to, so…”  
“I just—I wanted to make sure that there were no, er, hard feelings between us. I know we had a pretty big fight at Cape Town, and I just wanted to let you know that I didn’t mean any of the shit I said to you.” Brendon scoffed.  
“If you want to get back in the band, Ross, it’s too late. I’m not interested in you anymore.”  
“I don’t want to get back in the band, Brendon, I told you, I’m making my own music.” Yeah. And my music is about me wanting to get back in the band, because I feel that that’s where I belong.  
“Then what the fuck do you want?” Wow. Things turned pretty hostile pretty quickly.  
“I-I need to know that we’re okay. That we’re friends, that we forgive each other. I’m happy for you and your success, I really am, and I just wanted to patch things up. Sorry, I-I’ll go now.” Well this didn’t go the way I wanted it to be.  
“Hey,” Brendon said softly, taking hold of my arm. I flinched, but let him keep his hand around it. It was comforting, somehow. “Sorry for snapping at you like that. I thought you thought that we were still—that things were—I don’t know, really, I mean, I thought that you were coming back to...um…”  
“Act like a jealous ex?” I offered, and he grinned.  
“Yeah.”  
“Why does everyone think I’d stoop that low?” I asked him, rolling my eyes. He had let go of my arm by then, so I had relaxed. “I’m not a fucking homewrecker, despite what you may think.”  
“I don’t think anything, Ryan,” Brendon denied, sighing. “I’m sorry if it came across like that. You were wondering if we were okay—well, yeah, I mean, we can still be friends if you want. I just...I’m busier now, you know? Spencer needs to get his shit together, so he’s probably gonna go to rehab soon. And Dallon—well, Dallon’s probably only gonna be a part-time thing anyway. So not much will change, we’re probably going to see each other just as frequently as before.” Which means we will never see each other. Well then. I looked at my shoes, trying not to let my disappointment show.  
“Well, I just wanted to catch up. It’s been a while, you know?”  
“Yeah,” he agreed, clapping me on the back, “it’s been a while.” Then he left, probably to go and find Sarah and cut the cake or dance or something, and I just stood there for ten solid minutes, recounting the conversation we had had. It wasn’t what I had hoped it would be, but it didn’t go too badly, either. It went fine. I mean, I was still kind of heartbroken, but I’d get over that.  
I left soon after that, taking a chocolate-covered strawberry from the five-star buffet and a couple of sandwiches and squeezing through the crowd. My car was parked in the middle of the road, because where else was I supposed to park it, I didn’t see any fucking parking lots anywhere, and it was the only vehicle there, so it was easy to find.  
“Hey, Ross!” I turned around, seeing a very tipsy Patrick and an equally drunk Pete waving frantically at me. Shit. I was hoping to leave unnoticed.  
“Yeah?” I asked, leaning against my car. Pete giggled girlishly, almost falling on top of Patrick. I rolled my eyes. This was going to be strange.  
“Buy Save Rock and Roll on iTunes!” Patrick yelled, and I flipped them the bird, grinning widely as I opened the door to my car and stepped inside.  
I Write Sins Not Tragedies was playing again, and instead of having a panic attack like I did last time, I sang along, driving along the dirt road and following wherever the hell my shitty GPS was taking me.  
I was glad I went. It had been awhile since I had seen Brendon and the rest, anyway.


End file.
